Pretty. Stupid.

Danny McCarthy is a journalist focused on the intersection of pop culture and politics. His work has appeared in Westchester Magazine, Mediaplanet, The Odyssey Online and The BU Buzz. He is passionate about queer issues, personal essays and Ina Garten. He is currently pursuing a Master's in Journalism from the University of Southern California.

Monthly Archives: March 2015

I was finishing up a tweet, ironically enough about the likelihood of me getting hit by a train while tweeting and dying, while walking down stairs. Suddenly, my world tilted as my feet slipped on the slick, rubberized stairs and I tumbled down about six steps. My phone was all scuffed from the fall. My heart was pounding, and I made a fuck-ton of a noise.

My first reaction was to finish my tweet. And then I stood up and looked around. No one had seen, and I can’t decide if I’m more relieved or pissed. Relieved because when I fall it’s like a slow-motion deflating of those wavy-armed blow-up guys at car sales—is that a thing?—and it was a slow defeat. Pissed because I wasn’t hurt and I just wanted someone to be able to bask in the glory of that hilarity with me.

I originally started this post on Tuesday—the day of the falling—but the week has slipped through my fingers like tiny sand particles slipping through a sieve with particularly porous lines. And plus, now I can fully look back on my week and confirm that I am—indeed—cursed.

On Monday—

SOS WE INTERRUPT THIS BLOG POST TO LET YOU KNOW THAT A CUTE BOY WITH A NOSE PIERCING IS SITTING AT THE TABLE NEXT TO ME IN THE DINING HALL. But I’m wearing a workout sweatshirt, glasses and track pants. I AM NOT CUTE ENOUGH TO BE NEAR HIM RIGHT NOW.

—I had to move my ladder (I live in a lofted bed) to get to the dresser underneath it. To get socks. So not even worth it. And I guess when I put the ladder back, I didn’t make sure that it was fully locked in place. So I started chatting with my roommate and climbed up on my ladder to make my bed. Yes, I make my bed. I’m so good. Husband me up, rich older businessmen with no other heirs and a few years to live.

Suddenly, the ladder d—

UM HE JUST KISSED A GIRL NEVER MIND ABORT MISSION

—ropped from below me, leaving me clutching the bed and dangling. My roommate pulled the ladder from beneath my churning feet and told me I could drop to the floor. It was only like six inches, and I’m a very tall person, so it wasn’t that bad. But still, the curse had begun.

Tuesday, I fell down the stairs, and immediately ran into an attractive human, literally shaking.

Wednesday, I was getting some salsa for my quesadilla in the dining hall. I had some sweet potato fries on the same plate, and when I leaned over to get the salsa, the plate tipped and all the fries scattered into the tubs of salsa and sour cream. CURSED.

Thursday, well nothing really happened on Thursday. Or on Friday, except that CUTE BOY HAD A GIRLFRIEND. CURSED.

However, the week ended on an AMAZING note. Me and my friend Shelby—who literally insisted on being included in this post—received some shirts from the store of one of our favorite YouTubers—TRISHA PAYTAS. Former stripper, current PERFECTION, she is our favorite guilty pleasure. She also recently got a Swarovski-encrusted bicycle. AND SHE RETWEETED AND RESPONDED TO MY TWEETS ABOUT THE T-SHIRTS.

So that maybe proves that one can thrive despite a very real, basically confirmed curse. I’m so brave. I also realized that Interstellar and Gravity are both movies about space that were released very close to each other. Why did that happen? Did Interstellar do worse? Should I watch The Devil Wears Prada again, even though it’s been less than two weeks since my last viewing of it? So many questions and hardly any answers. Except “Yes” to the last one.

I guess I should sign off. This post took me an uncomfortably long time to write. Like, I started it on Tuesday. It is Friday night—turn up #turnt—and I’m just finishing it now. Sue me for having a social life; since when did being popular become a crime? Answer: Jawbreakers.

I think I’m going to get McDonalds. Cheers to making horrifying decisions!

I almost considered not writing this post and even now my fingers are trying to click quietly over the keys to avoid making any noise. I’m not succeeding.

I almost considered not writing this but I’m afraid if I don’t capture the motion of these feelings now then I’ll lose them by morning. Because 1 am isn’t cute but sometimes it’s the time for writing.

I don’t think I have ever felt a single emotion singularly. I have never been completely desolate or delirious. Everything is tempered with something to a certain degree. But right now I’m feeling so many emotions strongly that I wonder if it is possible to feel multiple emotions singularly; for them to exist privately in their own moment untempered but not cancel each other out. Can that happen?

Because right now I can’t decide if I am happy or sad and I know that I am both because I want to smile and cry and the balloon in my chest is just full of air and it’s getting fuller and I want to scream to let all of it out but I can’t.

I am sad and relieved and hurt and upset and embarrassed and glad and angry all at the same time and I feel them all like stones dropping into my ocean, plunk plunk plunk one after the other saying “We’re here; we’re with you.”

I am relieved that this thing is over but I can’t let go of the fear that I’ll lose something in letting it go. It was a crutch, a painful one that make my heart crimp, but it helped me walk. Walking alone is scary because I’m as wobbly as a baby giraffe and god knows how those supermodels manage to canter on those knobby knees. Sorry, went on a tangent.

I’m writing this post for me; not for the views or the laughs. I’m using this post as a time capsule. I feel these things and they are filling me up and I want them to. I feel thick with feelings and I don’t want that to go away. I want this moment, of piercing sadness and ringing happiness, to be crystallized and tucked away so that one day when I’m okay with the letting go-ness, I can reread and think about how kaleidoscopic my stained glass soul was at 1 am on March 11.

I’m starting to see this blog for what it could be: not just a professional—okay, laxly professional—way of showcasing my writing style, but also a way of me to express and process and verbalize and hurt and love and think and ramble. Also to use beautifully tangled runaway sentences that barrel on. Because that’s what I want my writing to be: I want it to be the words that describe the pain in your chest; the words that name the breathless, wonderful, wonderfully scary air in your lungs; the words that ring around your choked-up throat. Because that’s what it is for me; it lets me do all those things and more and I’m realizing how precious that is. Because our feelings are like this holy hymn and I want them to exist in a place that allows them to exist singularly together.

It’s been like four days since I’ve last posted, and since last week I blogged three (?) times, I’m not ashamed to admit that I miss it. Which is a good thing, right? I’m trying to get into the habit of blogging regularly, not just when I’m in a spiral.

I’m on spreak (spring break, duh) and so I have a lot of free time. Obviously there are the parties and the club appearances, but those are fictional, so during the day I’m doing basically nothing. I have eaten spectacularly bad since being home, but I have gone to the gym twice. When I was home for Christmas break, I only went to the gym the last week out of like five weeks. So going to the gym two days in a row after being home three days isn’t that bad. Right? Super-fit? Super-handsome? Super-humble?

I started watching RuPaul’s Drag Race, and caught up on the first two episodes.

My sister: What did you do last night?

Me: I just watched TV. RuPaul.

My sister: (judging look) You would.

Me: How dare you.

Normally I find it very hard to keep up with RuPaul’s Drag Race, because the queens keep changing their outfits and I can never end up telling them apart or remembering which ones I like. However, this season I have fallen in love with one of the contestants. Her name is Pearl, and out of drag she is so unbelievably hot. Out of drag, her name is Matt—I’m getting so confused about gender pronouns—and he has a septum piercing and perfect hair and he’s so deadpan I love it. So it’s very compelling to watch although I wish that the entire thing were just him. He doesn’t even have to speak. If it were just gifs of him rolling his eyes for forty minutes, that would be fine by me.

I’m sitting in the sun on my couch, and the light is striking the computer screen and illuminating the grubby dustiness of my laptop. How charming. I’m also listening to Spotify and I can’t decide if I should get Spotify Premium or not. I really want endless music on my phone, because I’m not sure how much longer I can go on shuffle mode. Additionally, the “limited skips” business is really not designed for someone as flighty as me. I’m like a sex addict: I use a song for about thirty seconds and then I get bored with it and move onto the next one. I guess I didn’t really need to say the sex addict part, I could’ve just said the second half of the sentence. Live and learn.

A bunch of people I know are in Florida and part of me is jealous and part of me is just tired thinking about walking on sand and not having easy access to soft surfaces, aka my bed. So, in other words, I’m glad I’m just chilling at home.

*Listens to Kelly Clarkson’s new album*

I have a soft spot for Kelly Clarkson because I listened to her Stronger album constantly when I was traveling in France and Italy my junior year of high school. I have this very distinct memory of being on a train through the Swiss Alps and listening to “You Can’t Win,” and it was only a few months after I had come out of the closet, so it really was striking a homosexual chord with me. I realize how bourgeoisie this entire paragraph was. We can just not talk about it.

Also, Kelly Clarkson was on one of my favorite shows, “Who Do You Think You Are?” which is a NBC (an NBC?) show about celebrity genealogy. Did you know that Brooke Shields is descended from Italian and French nobility? Like her grandmother is an Italian princess. Gwyneth Paltrow is white Barbadian, which is…interesting. I really love genealogy. I think it’s so fascinating to trace back your family history, because you can literally see what your ancestors went through if they lived in certain areas at certain points in history. GENEALOGY ROX.

I literally have no segue from this. Can you believe that people think you spell segue as “Segway”? PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUCEMENT: A segue is a seamless transition between two sentences, paragraphs, ideas, etc. A Segway is what Paul Blart rides. Also, didn’t the creator of the Segway ride off a cliff accidentally?

Speaking of cliffs—did I just do a Segway segue—I saw someone’s Instagram of the Grand Canyon. I really want to go to the Grand Canyon. I literally can’t even fathom how big it must be. You know how people use “literally” hyperbolically? I’m not using it like that; I actually cannot fathom how big the Grand Canyon must be. Are there Medium-Grand Canyons? Like where is the “Ehh, I’ve Seen Bigger” Canyon? Or the “I Guess The Camera Adds On Ten Pounds” Canyon? I require justice for canyons of all sizes; not just the grand ones.

In other world news, I watched The Devil Wears Prada yesterday (Sunday) and I have decided two things. One: There is nothing on this earth that is more satisfying/draws more of an audience than the prospect of Anne Hathaway getting a makeover. Two: The Devil Wears Prada SHOULD have ended with Andrea accepting Miranda’s offer to be on her elite team and them doing a virgin sacrifice together. I literally love the section of the movie from Andy’s makeover to right before she quits for the last time. If I could reedit it, I would make that the entire movie, have Andy go over to the dark side and join Miranda for ritualistic magic. EVERYONE WANTS TO BE US, ANDREA. Everyone.

Apparently, nothing gets me as fired up or activist-y as The Devil Wears Prada. I’m betting the U.S. government wishes the American youth cared as much about world politics as I do about Miranda Priestly’s outfits. Like, we would literally be unstoppable. Again, not being hyperbolic.

I keep using the word “histrionic” in everyday conversation and I have a sneaking suspicion that my friends are getting tired of me saying it. They’re being so histrionic.

I have a fear that someday I’ll misuse a word and someone will call me out on it and all the carefully cultivated condescension I have towards everyone about grammar and English and vocabulary will crumble. I feel like that is very much an English major’s fear.

If I’m being honest, like an hour has gone by since I wrote the previous sentence. So I think that signifies that this post is done. It was awesome. You don’t need to say it.

I’m really getting into my blogging grind. Who knew that complaining on the Internet could be so cathartic/monetarily beneficial/someone sponsor me please so I don’t have to finish my degree/relaxing?

I’m currently sitting in a Panera Bread, wearing glasses and all-black, writing this blog post because I was thinking, “How can I be more stereotypically a college kid?” I’m also drinking hibiscus iced tea and it tastes an awful lot like Play-Doh. I’m also staring at a guy who is on a very long business call, and it’s sort of fascinating. There is also a very attractive frat guy sitting a few tables away from me. Such a cross-section of the human race in this Panera Bread.

I finished writing my paper at 12:30 am, and was so completely jazzed about being done before 2:30 am for the first time in four days, that I promptly treated myself to staying up until 1:30 am watching YouTube videos. And then got up at 8 o’clock to go to the gym. So going to bed late might not have been the smartest way to celebrate not going to bed super late.

I woke up and went to class, but had to leave my last class 30 minutes early. It’s a boring class, but I always go so this was the first time I was going to be doing something even remotely close to skipping. And it’s only 30 minutes early, which is more like 20 minutes because we end at 3:20 instead of 3:30. I had to leave early because I had to go and meet my advisor to get his signature on my study abroad application. After that (!!!) I walked over to the far part of campus and handed it in. And Panera is right next to the study abroad offices.

But as I’m packing up to quietly slip out of the 300-person class lecture through the exit that is located AT THE FRONT OF CLASS, my professor walks up the stairs right to where I’m sitting. Like literally so close that he can look at my laptop. But I had minimized all of the BuzzFeed articles I was looking at, so I ~technically~ had nothing to hide. But I didn’t want to have to scoot around him, because he is the kind of professor who would definitely try to strike up a conversation as I’m leaving.

So I waited until he was down on the floor on the lecture hall again, and quietly stand up. As I’m walking down the stairs, he goes (AND I CAN’T MAKE THIS STUFF UP):

“Folks, this is going to be interesting. You’ll want to hear this.”

The class erupts into laughter as I walk down the stairs. He swivels and stares at me and I am just staring back like a deer in headlights but I don’t stop walking. I think I mouthed “I’m sorry” or “Oops” or something like that, but I just kept walking and I was thinking, “Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit,” the entire time.

After handing in my papers, bring me one step closer to study abroad—I’m going to the bowels of Hell, if you were wondering. I know, I know, it’s dumb to do your study abroad in your hometown, but what can I say? I love the heat—I decided to celebrate, so obviously I went to Panera Bread. I got my favorite—tomato soup and tuna salad sandwich.

Cashier: Do you want to add a pastry for ninety-nine cen—

Me: (perhaps too forcefully) Yes.

I got the hibiscus tea because I try not to drink soda, and even though I gave up iced tea for Lent, it was hibiscus and I felt like that barely counts. It’s basically like plants in water, and that just sounds like I’m drinking a botanical garden. Which is VERY healthy to do.

I’m still feeling down from yesterday’s shitshow. But I finished both of my papers—now I just need to edit them into something gradable—and I’m almost done with my study abroad application. And I’m going home tomorrow! Spring break, hell yeah! Although I just found out that it’s snowing back home, so Lorde—yes, I meant Lorde, that was not a misspelling—knows how it will actually be a “spring break” but I guess I can deal with it.

Should I do laundry before I go home? I feel weird leaving lots of dirty clothes in my hamper for a week. Is that weird that I’m so attached to my clothes? Okay, if I’m being honest, I wore a shirt over the week that is really soft and I want it to lounge in. I’M HUMAN.

I’ve started putting all of my files into folders on my laptop, and there is something very satisfying about organization like that. Plus, it is super cool to plunk a document from your desktop into a folder, and have it be tucked up like a little digital pig in a cyber blanket.

How is it that I can write over 800 words for my blog in, like, twenty minutes, but it took me TWO HOURS to write 200 words for my paper? Update on Gawain: I basically tore him to shreds. But in a classy and refined way—which essentially means that I refrained from using curse words in a college-level British Literature paper. I am an adult!

I’m trying to think of things of substance to say, but I’ve really got nothing. And since yesterday was so heavy, maybe that’s a good thing? Like, you don’t just eat chocolate mousse for every meal. Sometimes you have to have the consommé. And I guess in the metaphor I just made, this blog is the consommé? God. Oceans yesterday and broths today. I’m really on a roll. A bread roll. Another part of a well-balanced meal!

Side bar: Taylor Swift’s “Wonderland” is incredible! I’m a sucker for any Alice in Wonderland imagery. Is that super lame? Whatever, I don’t care. It rocks, and so does Alice in Wonderland. Not in a creepy way though. In a cool, sophisticated way. Like in a neo-industrial-steampunk-Chesire cat on acid-way. Like, you know, the usual. What even is this blog post? How can there be any expectations, ever?

There need to be weird-as-fuck, niched Spotify playlists. I just did a Spotify search for “feeling fucky and dumb but also hopeful” and nothing came up as a potential playlist. And rather than create that playlist myself, I am complaining about it on the Internet. Because I am a consumer, I am an American, and I am lazy.

I had kind of a shitty day. Actually, it’s been kind of a shitty week. And part of me is like, “Oh don’t put this on your blog, don’t show human emotions.” And part of me is like, “I’LL DO WHAT I WANT, I AM THE SUPREME OVERLORD”—which I almost just spelt as “overload”—“AND I WILL DESTROY THE GALAXY.” It’s one of those weeks where my barometer for knowing what is appropriate internet content and what is not is way fucking off. I don’t care right now. All I want to do is eat Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy, watch The Mindy Project and stab someone. In no particular order.

But no, I cannot become the slob I desperately crave. Instead, I am sitting in the study lounge, not writing my paper and listening to a playlist that does not adequately convey the fractious state of my psyche. I don’t want to write about Sir Gawain or the Green Knight. We have to respond to a critic critiquing Sir Gawain, and it is taking EVERYTHING I have to not start a rant, that would go something like this:

Like, what is Gawain even doing? He’s being a total coward, kissing Bertilak’s wife. But we are supposed to think he’s heroic because he’s exerting self-control. I exert self-control ALL the time when I don’t bully people to tears. And no one’s writing a poem about me.

It would basically just turn into a rant about me.

I know that my life is short and that even the shitty moments are good because at least I’m experiencing something. For so long, I felt nothing, and now I’m opening myself and feeling all these emotions and I’m just thinking, “Holy crap, how does anyone do this? How can we all walk around with all these emotions roiling around in us like oceans, with microcosms and algae and fucking blue whales and the entire time we’re supposed to act like we’re fine? I’ve swallowed the Atlantic and I’m supposed to be okay with that?” But I guess the whole point of feeling everything is that you feel everything and that the shitty moments are like cold currents in the ocean. They push you around and you notice them more, but they don’t make up the entire ocean. There are worlds we haven’t discovered in the ocean.

Now I’m just thinking about the ocean, and hoping that what I just wrote above was a complex metaphor and not a meta-bore.

And that’s why we need weird Spotify playlists. Because sometimes oceans feel like cold currents and you just need someone to scream-sing in your ears.

I just had to Google Image “gimp mask” for a tweet. And that’s a pretty accurate representation of what today has been like.

I’m drinking coffee—okay, a vanilla latte—because I stayed up until two a.m. the last two nights writing a paper. And by “stayed up until two,” I mean “stayed in the study lounge until two, and then stumbled back to my dorm.” Also, when I got back to my dorm last night/early this morning at 2:30 a.m., it was entirely dark. Like, Mariana’s Trench dark, because the power had gone out. It was freaky.

Tonight will probably be another late night. I have one more paper to write, and I have to finish my application for study abroad. I have to write a CV—“curriculum vitae”—and that just seems like the worst idea ever. It’s basically a list of all your accomplishments, and I’m guessing I can’t just copy-and-paste a compiled list of all the re-tweets I’ve gotten into a Microsoft Word document. Or can I? Can I?

I want to have everything done and finished before I go home for spring break so that I can reach my full potential and actually become a potato wedged into couch cushions. I think I can really go for the gold this year, you guys.

Side bar: If you ever want to feel weirder than you already probably do, sing “Brave” by Sara Bareilles but in the voice of Christopher Walken. I just did it, and I am forever altered by the experience.

I’m writing this post because I have a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s part nerves from getting everything done on time, part excitement for being home, and part vomit because of romantical things. Ugh, I legitimately hate that I just typed out those words. I like this human being—let’s call him Patient Zero; not because he has a weird disease, but just because I was thinking about calling him “Victim of Love” but that makes me sound like a serial killer—and I think—heavy, heavy, Mercury-heavy emphasis on “think”—that it is possible that he could possibly, maybe, potentially have some non-neutral but non-negative feelings towards me.

And so on one hand, I’m excited for that and I want to ask him to a second location—WHY AM I SOUNDING LIKE A SERIAL KILLER—and hang out. But on the other hand, there is also a very real possibility—a probability, in fact; actual I don’t know the difference; I was terrible in statistics—that he could very much not like me. I act really weird around him. Not “mentioning diarrhea or slavery” weird, but “I don’t know where to look or what to do with my hands which suddenly seem very weird” weird.

I don’t get uncomfortable often—I seem to lack the ability to be embarrassed. I think it’s because when something awkward happens, I’m too busy imagining the Tweet I’m going to write about it to actually get embarrassed. But I’m way uncomfortable around Patient Zero. I think because he’s cool, and I’m a melted puddle of sludge, and whenever he sees me, he’s probably wondering why the tall, slim, hot guy in front of him is acting like Jabba the Hutt. (I am that tall, slim hot guy who is acting like Jabba the Hutt. Also, nearly typed out “Jabba the Slut” and am now wondering if there is a stripper/pornstar with that stage name. But I am afraid to Google it because there are some things you can’t un-see.)

I’m actually feeling kind of weird writing this out, like “Oh should I not say this?” but who the fuck cares? This is a blog, not the Pentagon Papers. And writing things out, not having them roll around in my head, helps a lot. And I’ve been feeling shitty enough at times that I know I need to do anything that helps me. And this is my blog, my space to vent. And to discuss vents. Ventilation is so important, you guys.

Side bar, Microsoft wants me to correct “who the fuck cares” to “whom the fuck cares” but that just seems too pretentious, even for me.

I have a pimple on my cheekbone. Like, right on my cheekbone. And yes, it draws the eye to my high cheekbones, which are a definite plus for my face, but still, I’m not thrilled about looking like I have the Black Plague. Too soon? Also in class, I was looking at the weird dry patch of skin I have on my—perfectly sculpted bicep—and noticed two longer, darker hairs. My armhair is very blonde and fine—fine—so this was weird. Wait, now I can’t find them. Wait never mind. I found them.

Music-wise, I keep oscillating between Meghan Trainor, Kanye West, Nicki Minaj and Banks. The Pinkprint is so good, but so is Title, and nothing helps me more when I feel like ramming a car through a brick wall than “Black Skinhead.”

I was thinking today that if I end up being a writer for my life/job, how will I have enough words to span an entire life? I mean, even now I was scrambling to find an accurate metaphor before thinking of “Jabba the Hutt” to describe my behavior. But if it all goes to plan, my writing will be about my life, and as long as I keep being uncomfortable and awkward—which, considering the week I’ve had, is a definite possibility—I suppose I’ll always have material to write about. And eventually I’ll probably have kids or a dog, so then I’ll have another creature’s life to milk for product endorsements and book deals. No, but I’ll be a great parent to any humans/dogs that come into my life.

The coffee has now all been drunk, and I’m in the “nervous energy jittery shivering” phase of my caffeine fix. I regret saying “caffeine fix.” But it happened. I suppose I could delete it, but I want you to know that I’M HUMAN TOO. I MAKE MISTAKES TOO.

Side bar, Spotify is pushing HARD for me to upgrade to Spotify Premium and I just want to be like “GOD, GET OFF MY BACK” whenever they play a commercial and it just ends up being an ad for themselves.

Maybe I should go after Star Wars nerds, since I act like Jabba the Hutt. Wait, is it Star Trek? Dammit, now the Trekkies and the War-ies (?) will be mad at me for mixing it up. Now I’m definitely not going to get a boyfriend. I’ve alienated the nerds. Not that Star Wars is nerdy…I mean, it is. But cool-nerdy. Like how Drake was on Degrassi and now he’s a rapper. It’s, like, cool. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.